What Comes After
by randomcat23
Summary: While waiting on the overpass before attacking the Sanctuary, Tara struggles to figure out what she will do once the war is over. And as it turns out, she's not the only one. Tara/Denise and a tiny bit of Caryl.


**Disclaimer:** Nope, I don't own The Walking Dead.

I started writing this after the Season 8 trailers, but before episode 8x1 aired, so it no longer fits in the timeline of the show. I ended up finishing it anyway, and here we are.

* * *

Tara has a reoccurring dream, a happy, simple one: a carnival with popcorn, cotton candy, and small rides. Visitors amble around, canopied under the red and purple, yellow and blue waves of streamers stretched from the corners of game stands.

Laughter and squeals of joy are the backbeats to the whistling calliope and thundering coasters.

Hand in hand, Denise and her stroll the area. Sometimes with large, stuffed prizes tucked under their arms. Sometimes slurping soda out of a shared cup.

Tara used to wake up and smack her lips, looking for powdered sugar.

Denise always had something to say, some explanation: The dream was a clump of repressed childhood memories, or a fantastical escape from the chaos of the world. Basically, wishful thinking manifesting kindly.

After a few minutes of cheerfully ignoring her love's explanation while memorizing the halo of blonde curls around Denise's head, Tara would playfully roll her eyes and cut off the clinical evaluation, "Okay, Freud."

Then Denise would push her glasses up and mutter about not caring too much for a lot of the man's theories.

And Tara would kiss those pouting lips and it was always as good as the first time.

* * *

Tara curses it, the memory of the fantasy carnival and each morning after, coming to her on the top of this overpass with just a slab of concrete and a hundred feet separating her from the walkers below. The ache in her chest echoes the last time, their final goodbye; throbbing with sorrow punctuated by spiked stabs.

 _"Don't do it, Tara."_

Her lip wobbles. She bites it.

 _"Not now!"_

Upon returning home and finding out Denise was dead ( _murdered_ ), grief had filled her with cement and Tara had passed hours blinking at the walls. Her feet like cinder blocks, she shuffled around Alexandria and found Denise in everything. The textbook left on the end table. A scar on Tara's forearm that Denise had stitched begged to be scratched. Her hands, shaking like a two-year-old staring down a horrifying birthday clown, threw Denise's favorite t-shirt back under the bed.

Grief eventually evolved into vengeance when she woke each day and Dwight was still alive and Denise was still dead. Sorrow boiled over into rage when Negan took, and took, and took. The resulting anger led her to action, action led her to Rick and Ocean Side, and now to this point where it would hopefully all end.

Under this intoxicating, powerful, influence, she'd rain terror down on those who crossed her family, on the one who murdered Denise. The prospect tightens her throat and her skin prickles with sweat.

Next to her, so close their boots could touch with a flick of an ankle, Carol stares grimly at nothing. The moans continue as the mob of walkers ambles on after Daryl's growling motorcycle, a dangerous, but easily manipulated terror.

On the way to destroy Negan.

Tara grimaces and tries to think of something else. Not Denise, not Glenn, not Negan...not Denise. It was best to tuck that fuel away for later. Otherwise, if she steeped in it too soon, she'd flicker out and fall useless before it was safe to, before completing her mission.

 _"How about after, then? What comes after?"_

After they destroy Negan, after her throat goes raw from the screaming and yelling and running through leg cramps just to stay a hand's width ahead of the walkers. After her revenge is complete, when Alexandria safe and in control of its fate again, all peaceful houses with hanging plants and sunflowers lining the steps.

 _"We could have-"_

Laid in bed from sunrise to sunset-

Expanded Denise's library-

Found a carnival-

Tara flinches, and starts again, concentrating on real possibilities and not wishful ones.

It's terribly difficult and she's tempted to dive into happier memories, just to fill her brain with something. But the very hint of Denise's memory brings tears and rage and-

 _"I'll hang out with Judith, I guess_." The thought blurts across her consciousness, a timely defensive daydream. _"We'll start an emo punk band. Me on vocals, Judith on drums-Tupperware drums."_

Tara nods to herself, the stupid image amusing and soothing. The toddler made her smile, after all, and didn't look at her with sadness or pity. Tara plays out an old rhythm on her thigh, Green Day, maybe. It quickly dies; stamped out by the prospect of only spending time with Judith. The kid was a good listener, but that was about it.

 _"Well, Carl can join on vocals. Rosita too,"_ Tara continues, mentally piecing together the band. _"She can do pyrotechnics."_

Eugene- _"Fuck Eugene."_

Tara presses on.

 _"Maggie's...Maggie's band manager. Rick and Michonne would totally jam out. And Denise-"_

The spot she imagined her girlfriend holds nothing. No image, not even a shadow. Just the bookcase in their ( _her_ ) living room, unintelligible lingo written on dusty spines.

Tara gasps.

Denise. Denise. _Denise._

"Tara?" Carol's question flies in out of nowhere and Tara slaps on a wide, yet thin smile, and hopes her heart isn't rattling her chest too much.

"Wh-what's up?"

"How many more minutes?" Patience steadies Carol's question, even as she raises a concerned eyebrow.

"Oh, um," she trails off, tapping her watch. "Fifteen."

The roar of Daryl's motorcycle is now far enough away to be lost in the groans of the walker herd. Tara's ears are ringing and her temple throbs. Using strength she wasn't ready to call on, she refocuses on the horizon beyond and the cracks in the wall. The back of her eyes burn.

Fifteen minutes to keep herself from crying. Fifteen minutes to hold down the rage volcano. Fifteen minutes until they begin to destroy Negan's empire, until blood and guts paint the Sanctuary like rain.

Shallow breaths fill her lungs.

Carol shifts, calculating. Tara finds herself watching the older woman out of the corner of her eye because any movement is more distracting than the stagnant overpass. Carol turns her neck back and forth, parting her lips and then clamping them shut. Finally, she faces Tara with a breath through her nostrils.

"I'm so sorry about Denise. I don't think I ever got to say so."

Her name stings and rips down her defenses. Tara whips her head upward and gulps out the required: "Thanks..."

The tears spill then, opportunistic assholes. The hiccup joins the parade and Tara quietly shakes. Shame spreads across her cheeks; she was doing so well and somehow she's afraid Carol will think she's weak, even though it's her fault for bringing up-

"We don't get to cry now. Not yet," Carol ends in low whisper, her palm solid and tender on Tara's shoulder.

The tears cease. She stutters at the kindness wrapped up in the brisk words and ends up taking advantage of Carol's ear.

"I keep trying to think of what comes after, but I can't."

Now it's Carol's turn to focus on the far side of the bridge, its cracked facade, the bits of rubble. "You get to mourn," she says quietly.

"Ha. Yeah, mourn. Huh-ugh, gross." Tara grimaces at her snotty sleeve and the whole situation. Hasn't she done enough crying? (Clearly not.) Is that all that's left after the war? More blubbery faces, sleeplessness, and aching hearts? Damn it all, that is that what they are fighting for, right? The chance to do those things without worrying about the walls failing or someone shooting an arrow through your-

Tara steers the conversation back away from herself and the spiraling doom. "What about you, Carol? What are you going to do after?"

"I don't know."

"Bang the King?" Tara suggests, slightly proud of herself for the joke.

Carol scowls and clips, "No."

"Sorry." Tara punches the older woman's shoulder lightly, to hide her fragile positivity. "I'm dying to think about anything but this. Just for a bit."

"Apology accepted." Ever in business mode, Carol asks, "How many more minutes?"

"Seven," Tara answers, regretfully. "I can still hear the back half of the herd."

Carol cracks her neck, checks her gun, and glances over her right shoulder, apparently done with the conversation. Twizzlers provide a necessary distraction. Tara's stuffing one between her lips when Carol answers, "I guess, I'd like to go some place quiet."

"Huh, yea," Tara breaths and chews. She envisions her rockin' emo band, loud and unrefined, belting out bleeding heart chords and finds it comforting. The quiet is unsettling. The quiet is when Denise comes to her, and she simply can't have that, at least not all the time.

Some people though, she guesses, need that, will crave that after all this.

After Negan ( _Dwight_ ) is dead.

Thoughtfully, Tara suggests, "Take Daryl with you. You guys can be quiet together."

The flush that crosses Carol's face catches Tara off guard. It is bright and fierce, the kind brought on by being called out on deep, hidden truths.

Oh.

"Shit Carol. Shit."

"What?"

She recovers quickly, but not fast enough.

Tara clucks, "Daryl?"

"Stop."

"No way. I mean, I always wondered..."

"Let it go."

"Nope."

"Tara!"

"That's some repressive shit."

Even Denise would agree to that one. Tara shivers and is surprised to find herself smiling. Just a little.

"Enough," Carol huffs and refuses to look at her.

 _Beep beep beep beep!_

"Shit."

"Let's move!"

Carol's five steps ahead of her before Tara can close the conversation. The mask of grim determination is back in place.

 _"We all have things to tuck away for later, I guess."_

Like memories of Denise, in her best moments, let loose from the burden of being the community's doctor, humming softly or digging up favorite recipes. Or when she'd ramble aimlessly about her brother and Tara would return the favor with bits about her family. Denise, her smile, the warmth of her hand.

Tara's eyelids flutter, washing away the memory. With a sigh, she pockets the rest of the candy and readies her gun.

 _"Judith better be practicing her rhythm. I'm going to have some sweet lyrics when this is all done."_

She chases after Carol and they go to war.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** I really liked the idea of Tara getting to talk to Carol before the battle starts. She's been one of my favorites since she appeared and this was a nice quiet chance for thoughts before the rush.

Carol seems pretty pensive on the overpass, so I figured it wouldn't be too out of place for her to offer Tara condolences. It may be their last chance, after all. And I threw in some Caryl, cuz I can't help myself.

Anyway, thanks for reading! Feedback is greatly appreciated!-randomcat23


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